


Supernatural: In the End

by SingingFlames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Gen, Last Conversations, impending major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingFlames/pseuds/SingingFlames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his final hours ticking away, Crowley has three last conversations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supernatural: In the End

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Alternate Universe - Some point in the future.  
> Pairings: None  
> Rating: PG  
> Warning: Angst, Impending Major Character Death, AU  
> A/N: This is for @nichelle-my-belle’s (on Tumblr) Angst Challenge, with the prompt, “You can’t sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares”.

“This’ll just take a moment,” Sam said, eyes intent on the equipment he carried. He placed a needle and IV, attached to an empty blood bag, on the bare metal table. He dug a few gauze pads and sterile wipes out of his pocket.  
“Sod. Off.” Crowley shifted as best he could. Those trice-damned cuffs, empowered with demonic warding, bound his wrists and ankles to the chair. A leather collar, also warded, encircled his throat, a thick chain connecting to the seat. Crowley enjoyed a bit of bondage - he was a demon - but not here, held prisoner in the Winchesters’ private little dungeon, and certainly not under these circumstances. His gaze traveled over the implements Sam fiddled with, lips tightening. “Shove those right up your arse.”

“No.”

Sam approached the demon’s side. Not looking up from his work, he twisted Crowley’s arm and yanked up the others sleeve. Crowley flexed, struggling, but the wards hampered his strength, weakened him to mere human levels. As bloody pointless as it was, he couldn’t help but to wrestle against Sam’s grip. The younger Winchester squeezed his wrist, holding him down.

“Wanker,” Crowley bit out under his breath. Gritting his teeth, he ceased his struggles. Dignity was in short supply, but he may as well cling to little he had left.

Still holding his wrist down in one hand, Sam ripped open an alcohol wipe with his teeth. He swiped it across the inside of the demon’s elbow.

“Seriously?” Crowley raised his brows. “You’re going to kill me anyway and you’re, what, worried about infections? Moron!”

Sam paused and glanced at the sterile wipe. Sighing, he crumpled and tossed it onto the table. Not meeting the demon’s gaze, he picked up the needle. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“And why that?” Crowley nodded at the needle. “If you need blood, just grab something sharp and have at it. Don’t worry about me. I like it rough.”

“Less mess to clean up,” Sam muttered. He didn’t look up as he tapped Crowley’s inner elbow. Finding a vein, he inserted the needle and reached for the IV.

“Less mess?” Crowley scoffed. It wasn’t like the baby Winchester to be squeamish. “You really are new to the whole sacrifice thing, aren’t you?”

Sam fiddled with the IV, watching as it began drawing blood from the demon’s arm. He shook his head. “It’s not a sacrifice. We need your blood to-”

“Yes, yes, I know. You can’t kill the Triumvirate. They’re immortal, a la Abaddon. You can’t use the First Blade on them, as the Mark’s no more. Enter your brilliant spell.” Crowley spat the words out. Piecing together bits of Kevin’s notes, the Winchesters’ had found a way to conceivably destroy the First Blade - taking their current nemesis, the Triumvirate, with it. Oh, and all other demons, Crowley included, as well. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Moose. You use my blood to fuel your little puff of magic, and I die, yes? I don’t know what the kids call it nowadays, but in my time, that was called a sacrifice.”

“Whatever.” Sam stepped back, eyes on the slowly filling bag.

“Or, if you’d prefer, I could call it genocide. Mass extinction, perhaps?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Crowley dipped his head forward, trying to catch the others gaze, but the Winchester refused to make eye contact. Interesting. Useful? Perhaps, if only to throw some guilt the human’s way. Nasty things, consciences.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Crowley said.

“For what?”

“Helping Dean with the Mark. Helping against Amara, even though she did kill quite a few of my people. I guess it doesn’t matter now, since you, personally, are going to slaughter the rest of us. Shoddy way of saying thanks, by the way, but as you will.” Crowley shrugged. He watched as the others shoulders tensed, smirking. “All those times I could have killed you, killed Dean, Cas too, but I let you walk away. The lot of you have tromped over my plans, repeatedly, and I let you continue existing. And now, here we are.”

Sam examined the mostly full blood bag. Satisfied, he pinched off the IV. Grabbing a gauze pad - ignoring Crowley’s exasperated snort - he pressed the material against the needle as he withdrew it. He returned to the table, gathering up the various implements.

Sam sighed, still not looking at his companion. “You knew it had to come to this. Eventually. It would come down to you or us.”

“I suppose so.” Crowley watched as the hunter walked away. “It’s been fun, Moose.”

Sam paused at the dungeon door, hand hovering over the light switch. After a pause, he left it on. He turned around, one last time, and met the demon’s gaze.

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

 

Hours passed, but Crowley could not tell exactly how many. Hard to track time in this place. Nothing to do but stare at walls, boxes and shelves. At least Sam had done him the courtesy of leaving the light on. This time.

The dungeon door creaked open.

Crowley raised his head. Was Moose here to bleed him again? Fun times.

Castiel walked in.

“Ah, pet, welcome to my little corner of paradise. I’d stand, but…” Crowley gestured as best he could at his bindings, chains clinking.

The angel spared his shackles a glance, then looked around the room. He approached, eyes flicking about: first, the shelves to his right, then some boxes, then Crowley (oh, so briefly), then the left side, more boxes, the table, Crowley again, and away to the right. Crowley snorted. Lovely. Castiel stopped in front of him, staring at the blank stone wall just above his right shoulder.

The angel opened his mouth, but shut it, gaze still intent on the wall. Crowley drummed his fingers on the chair. Bloody angel.

“So,” Crowley began, patience gone, “how goes it?”

Castiel turned his head aside. “Sam and I have finished the spell preparations. Everything is ready.”

“Oh, you helped out?”

“It is an extremely complicated spell…” Castiel meet the demon’s gaze and let his voice trail off.

“How very benevolent of you.” Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Are you here to end me, then? Seeing that you blokes have got your all your bits and bobs lined up? Don’t need me, now, is that it?”

“Ah,” the angel tilted his head, “no. That’s not how the spell works.” He looked away. “It drains you and then your death - in theory - unmakes the First Blade. That, in turn, destroys the others.”

“‘In theory’.” The demon shook his head. “By the way, you may wish to explain the concept of ‘sacrifice’, and how it pertains to spellcraft, to Sam. He’s a bit confused.” Crowley took a deep breath and loosened fists he hadn’t realized he’d clenched. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?”

“It’s not time yet. The moon needs to rise.”

“How long?”

Castiel glanced at his watch. “Just over two hours.”

“Ah.” He tried to summon up some anger, a flash of rage, fury, curses and screams to hurl the angel’s way, but he couldn’t find the energy. Two hours? Over three centuries of fighting and clawing his way up from piss and mud, for what? Nothing. All of it, nothing. To wither and die, alone, in some filing room-turned-dungeon. He wouldn’t even see them as they killed him. So bloody pointless.

Castiel was staring at him.

Crowley sighed. “Was there something I can help you with?”

“No,” Castiel said, briefly lowering his eyes. “I just … Can I get you anything?”

“Fancy smudging the trap and taking these darbies off?” the demon asked, jangling the cuffs.

“I can’t do that.”

Crowley glanced aside, focusing on nothing. “It won’t last. You know that, right? Maybe they’ll win out. Maybe they won’t. Say the boys do win, cheers all around, what then? Give them a year, maybe two, and they’ll be knee deep in it again. There’ll always be something else, some new threat, ready to gobble this mud ball up. It’ll never stop.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“In the end, what’s the point?”

“They - _we_ \- can’t stop fighting.” Castiel held his arms out. “Things will improve. There will always be evil, but we will prevail. I have to believe that.”

“Keep your fantasies. You can’t sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”

The angel nodded, a slow up and down motion, although Crowley had no idea what Castiel was agreeing to. “We do what we must.”

“Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.”

 

Castiel departed soon after, leaving Crowley alone once more. With two hours left until his big goodbye, he sat, drumming a slow beat on the chair, unable to do anything. Bloody Hell, he was in a trap, were the shackles necessary? He could rant and holler, of course, but to whom? The walls? To what end?

Time crawled. He stared, unseeing, at the boxes and waited as somewhere a clock ticked away, counting ever closer to the moment the spell - and his death - would begin.

The door opened, revealing Dean. The elder Winchester entered, a large paper sack in hand. Hooking a chair from the corner, he dragged it forward and set it opposite of the demon.

“Dean. Pleasure, as always.” Crowley attempted a smirk, but it came out a grimace.

“Hey,” the human returned. The bag clinked as he set it down.

Crowley raised a brow in curiosity. “What you got there, mate?”

In answer, the hunter reached inside the sack and withdrew a slender wooden box. An ornate red label, complete with gold script, graced the lid. Two squat glasses followed. Crowley snorted in appreciation. Craig, the high end, couple-hundred-dollars-a-bottle, stuff. Squirrel was feeling rich.

Dean scooped up one of the tumblers and handed it to Crowley. Nice gesture, but with the cuffs on, how’d Dean plan on him drinking anything? A straw? The demon turned the glass over in his hand, considering. Quirking his mouth to the side, he shot the hunter a questioning glance. Dean dug through his pocket and pulled out a tiny key, which twinkled in the sole bulb’s light.

Crowley tapped his fingernail in a steady beat against the tumbler, watching as Dean bent down close to unlock the shackle. Not very close, but close enough. Crowley’s grip tightened imperceptibly as the restraint sprang free. Sloppy, really, for Dean to leave himself open next to any demon, much less him. He chewed the corner of his mouth. Crowley’s fingers loosened as the hunter straightened back up. A sigh escaped his lips.

“What?” Dean asked, taking his seat.

“I was just imaging shattering this glass and shoving a fragment into your eye.” Crowley shrugged. “Word of advice: don’t hand demons potential weapons and then expose soft, tender bits to them. I might have actually killed you. And I don’t know if Cas still has the mojo to raise you.”

The human grunted. “Yeah, well, thanks for not.”

“Understand, Dean, that was my chance to strike at Sam, to hurt him. He might take me out, but, in the end, he’d’ve lost.” He let his gaze wander. “Ah, well.”

“If you change your mind, please don’t.” Dean slid the lid off the wooden box, revealing a gently sloped glass bottle with a deep amber liquid inside. He unstoppered it and filled his glass. Reaching over, he poured a generous amount into Crowley’s tumbler.

The demon brought the drink to his nose and, closing his eyes, inhaled. He savored the sharp scent, the spicy undertones. He brought the glass to his lips, swishing the potent beverage over his tongue. Dean chose well. Crowley had had damn near unlimited resources, but he had refrained from splurging, saving the truly good stuff for momentous occasions. A final drink was special enough. He nodded a silent thanks to his companion.

Dean took a swig from his cup and winced. He pointed at the bottle. “That’s crap.”

“Really, Squirrel, one of these days you must develop a sophisticated palate. Drink like a grown up.”

“If that’s ‘sophisticated’, then count me out. I’m happy with my rotgut. Thanks.” Dean tipped his glass back again, pulling a face.

“Sip it,” Crowley suggested. “Savor the flavors. Roll it on your tongue. Taste the smoky undertones, the spices. Enjoy it.”

“Trying, man,” Dean said with a grimace.

A ghost of a smile played at Crowley’s lips as he watched the hunter’s efforts, valiant as they were. Poor bitty, never properly exposed to the finer things of life. Crowley took his own advice, bringing his tumbler up and sipping the Craig. The two of them, demon and human, drank in silence for several moments. Crowley’s eyes fell to his glass and he sighed.

“How long?”

Dean glanced at his watch. “Nine minutes.”

Crowley swirled the scotch, watching the reflection play across the surface. He nodded. He tipped his glass back, taking a swig.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, I stole it. That’s what took so long. No big.” Dean shrugged, holding his arms wide.

Crowley smirked, then sobered. “What I mean is, we haven’t always been on sociable terms. Quite the opposite. But you’ve been decent to me. Thank you.”

Dean nodded. He reached over and tapped his glass against Crowley’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, mate.”


End file.
